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Kevin searched my eyes for a long moment, reading the depth of today’s pain the way only he could.

“I’m staying home,” he said decisively. “I need to be here for you. Especially today. Work can wait.”

I started to protest out of habit, but he shook his head and pulled me closer. The relief that washed through me was quiet. I didn’t have to do this alone.

In the months after the fire, I didn’t want to keep going. The pain was too vast, the guilt too suffocating. I attempted suicide more than once. I swallowed pills in a haze of grief. Another time, I stood on a bridge staring at the dark water below. Each time, something stopped me. A distant memory of Seth’s smile. The stubborn part of me that refused to let Richard win.

Eventually, I found therapy. Real help. Then support groups full of women who understood the aftermath of having their lives shattered. That was where I met Kevin. He was a lawyer who had been invited to speak about legal protections available to abuse survivors. He dedicated his career to helping women escape domestic abuse. He built cases, secured protections, fought for custody and safety. He had seen too many stories like mine. He listened without pity. He helped me fight the system that had failed me, helped me change my name and disappear from Richard’s world. Somewhere in the long process of rebuilding, he became my safe place. My husband. The father of the children who came after.

I forced myself through the motions. I showered and got dressed.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with chaos. Elise, four years old with her father’s curly hair and my warm brown eyes, stood on a chair arguing with her little brother. Ryan, three years old and intensely particular, sat at the table carefully arranging the marshmallows from his bowl of Lucky Charms into neat little rows.

“I’m a big girl. I can pour my own orange juice!” Elise declared, waving the carton above her head.

Ryan laughed.

I smiled and moved in to rescue the situation. “Okay, team. Pancakes first, then we talk about pouring privileges.”

I made breakfast on autopilot: pancakes with chocolate chips, eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit cut into small pieces. As I set the table, my hand reached instinctively for two more plates.

For one brutal second, they were there.

Eight-year-old Seth sat quietly, reading the back of the cereal box with that serious little frown. Luke sat beside him, kicking his feet under the table and asking for extra whipped cream with a grin that could brighten the darkest room.

My hand froze in the air. The image dissolved into smoke. I quietly slid the extra plates back into the cabinet, one tear slipping free before I could stop it. I wiped it away before either child noticed and forced a brighter smile.

Breakfast continued. Life continued.

With Kevin home, the morning felt easier. The four of us moved through the house together in the comforting routine we had built over the years. Elise stayed home with us as planned, and Ryan’s laughter filled the spaces that grief tried to hollow out.

I climbed the stairs to my art studio while Kevin kept the kids entertained downstairs.

Painting had also saved me after the fire. When words failed and therapy felt exhausting, color and canvas gave me somewhere to put the pieces of my heart that refused to die. The room was filled with landscapes, portraits, commissions for the hospital gift shop, and peaceful scenes. Hidden among them were dozens of paintings and sketches of Seth and Luke.

They captured different ages and different memories. Among them were sketches of my father, Henry, with his kind eyes and gentle hands captured in charcoal. I had drawn imagined scenes too, including Henry and Seth together as grandfather and grandson, even though they never had the opportunity to meet. In one, Henry was reading to a small Seth. Those pieces hurt differently. They held grief layered upon grief and love that never got to exist in the real world but lived fully on paper and canvas.

I pulled out a fresh canvas and began another painting. This one showed Seth exactly as he had looked that last morning at IHOP. His face held surprise and awe as he looked at his little black model Impala and played with it on the table.

I sketched from memory, every line coming easily because I had never let the details fade. I remembered the curve of his cheeks, the way his hair fell across his forehead, and the quiet intensity in his eyes.

I talked to him while I sketched.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I should’ve stayed. I love you so much. I hope you knew that. I wish your grandpa could have met you. He would’ve loved you so much.”

The brush moved across the canvas. Tears blurred my vision, but I kept going.

The studio door creaked open slowly. Elise padded in on bare feet, clutching her favorite stuffed animal. She stopped beside me and studied the portrait with the solemn curiosity only a four-year-old could manage.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

I set the brush down and pulled her gently onto my lap. I hadn’t told Elise or Ryan about Seth yet. I thought they were too young to understand. Elise understood more than I gave her credit for, and I realized it might be time to tell her.

“That’s Seth. My first baby. Your big brother.”

She looked confused, her brow furrowing. “I don’t have a big brother.”

“You do,” I said quietly. “He died before you were born.”